


Pink Punk Love

by Zivvanon



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: After she tries to steal your pokemon, And breaks into your house, Fluff, Little vignettes of you and a Team Skull Grunt falling in love, Multi, Slow Burn, kind of, nobody's perfect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8801800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zivvanon/pseuds/Zivvanon
Summary: A fluffy and indulgent Reader x Female Team Skull Grunt fic based on an anon's request!-----This was becoming a ritual. You’d come home to find your lock picked and that Grunt either in the process of raiding your fridge or sacked out on your couch with empty snack bags scattered around her like some crappy modern art display. At first it had been irritating, but now it was almost like having a stray Meowth relying on you.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the original requester on /guz/ for inspiring this fic! It evolved into something unexpected but it was super fun to write.

“Hand over the Pokémon or get beat down! Team Skull comin’ attcha!”

You freeze in your step and grimace. Seriously? This really wasn’t what you needed tonight after such a rough shift at Sushi High Roller. 

“Look, I’m tired,” you mumble, turning around to face whatever little punk had decided to ruin your night even more. “Can’t we just call this off and go home?”

One look at the young woman in front of you and you know that’s not happening. All this time you’d managed to avoid these Team Skull morons, and tonight of all nights they finally catch up with you.

This one seems even fiercer than usual. At least from what you can tell; the bandana covering half of her face makes it hard. Honestly, other than her intense eyes, she looks like all the other Team Skull Grunt girls; neon pink hair, worn out black tanktop, ripped white shorts—little thug clones. Her obnoxious medallion clinks as she pulls out a Poké Ball with far too much enthusiasm.

“Not a chance! Give up now or get creamed, yo!”

You don’t know why you ever expected different. 

She throws her ball before you have a chance to negotiate further. The Salandit that comes out of it shakes itself off and hisses ferociously at you, a spark of fire already dancing from its jagged jaws.

You reluctantly grab the only ball you have on your belt. Your Incineroar, Cinder, had been your partner since you were a kid. The two of you may not have a ton of battle experience, but you were sure you wouldn’t lose to this cocky brat.

You toss the ball and Cinder emerges, fangs bared and already growling. You have no clue how he always seems to know what’s going on before he comes out, but you’re grateful now that he’s so battle-ready.

“Woah. Wasn’t expectin’ that kinda Pokémon from someone as weak lookin’ as you!” the Grunt girl exclaims. She squats down and rests her elbows on her knees, brows furrowing in concern. She’s wondering if she can win this battle.

“Thanks,” you say, voice flat with annoyance. “Does that mean you’ll go?”

“Not ‘til I win,” she hisses. She pulls down her bandana and breaks into a grin as wild as the flames that suddenly ignite on her Salandit’s back. “I’m gonna bring that Incineroar to the boss no matter what it takes.”

You narrow your eyes in determination. If this is how she’s going to play it, you don’t have much of a choice.

“Cinder!” you order, thrusting your hand towards the Salandit. “ThroatChop!”

*********

In the end, you won after all. The Grunt’s Salandit had put up a surprisingly strong battle considering its size, but Cinder had gotten the edge.

You’re proud of yourself, almost ready to start some obnoxious bragging of your own, until you see the look on the Grunt’s face. Her lips are screwed up in frustration and she’s staring at the ground like it holds the reason for her failure. She scrubs her fingers through her hair, knocking her beanie off-kilter, and looks utterly defeated.

“So much for making the boss man proud,” she mutters to herself. “Guess this is why I’ll always be a Grunt. Tch, so useless all the damn time!”

You shift from foot to foot, uncomfortable in that sinking feeling of witnessing something you’re not meant to. Somehow you were starting to feel obligated to cheer her up, as if you were the one who did wrong.

Her issues aren't in any way your responsibility. In fact, you have every reason to rub your victory in her face and walk away. Yet something holds you back. You don't know if it's the tears you can see gathering in her eyes (which wells up a feeling of panic in you, for some reason), or if it's the warm, calming, floral-scented breeze that ruffles your hair, but something is poking at that gentle, annoyingly compassionate part of you. Oh great. You're really about to do this.

“Hey….” you begin reluctantly, rubbing the back of your head. “I…I gotta go heal my Incineroar up and your Salandit needs help too. Maybe I can buy you a drink there or…something.”

She jerks her gaze up to you, surprised. Then her eyes narrow into slits and she presses her lips into a thin line. You can see she’s sizing you up, trying to tell if you’re messing with her or if this was some pity offer. Well, it kind of WAS a pity offer.

“Fine,” she finally barks. She cradles her Salandit’s ball in her hand and storms ahead you, like she’s doing you a troublesome favor. “But only ‘cause you’re paying.”

You buy her Tapu Cocoa at the café in the Pokémon Center. Apparently it’s her boss’s favorite drink, or so she’d gushed to you as you handed her the steaming cup. When she pulls her bandana down again to drink, you sneak a glance at her uncovered face. She’s a little younger than you’d thought; her cheeks are pleasantly round, and her nose is sharp and aristocratic. She’d probably be pretty if she wasn’t trying to make some “tough” face all the time.

You sit together for an uncomfortably long time as you wait for your Pokémon to heal. 

“What’s your name?” you venture to ask after a long period of silence.

“Grunt.”

You blink in surprise. 

“No really, what is it?"

She throws you an annoyed side-glance and takes a loud slurp of her cocoa. 

“Grunt’s the only important name I got.”

That answer bothers you, but you don’t ask again. It doesn’t really matter—it’s not like you’ll ever see her again after this.

*********

When you come home, your lock is broken. A cold shiver runs through you and you grab Cinder’s ball, tiptoeing your way inside. Your thumb is on the button and you’re ready to press it the moment you see something off.

As you sneak through the doorway, you hear crunching sounds coming from your living room. You hold your hand up, ready to throw down, and cautiously peak around the corner. Whoever it is, they’re going to feel your wra—

Your jaw falls open when you see what must be the Grunt girl from a few days ago sprawled out on your couch. She’s wrist-deep in a bag of your favorite barbeque chips and chomping on a mouthful of them. She hasn’t even bothered taking her sneakers off, and there’s a full dirty footprint on one cushion. 

“What are you doing here?” you finally speak up, irritated. She hadn’t heard you come in, if her rocketing off the couch and shrieking is any indication. You watch forlornly as an explosion of chips rains down onto the carpet. 

“YO what the hell!” she yells, gesturing wildly at you. “Why you gotta creep on me like that?”

Really, YOU were the one creeping in this scenario?

“Why are you in my house?” you ask again, your hand still firmly on Cinder’s ball. Her eyes dart down to it and she holds her hands up, placating.

“A’ight, don’t bug! Just came ‘cause I was hungry. You seemed like the type with cash to blow, buyin’ me drinks and stuff earlier. Thought you wouldn’t miss some chips.”

Your first instinct is to assume this is an excuse, and she’s here to steal. But that doesn’t seem right. Team Skull isn’t exactly known for its intelligence, but nobody’s stupid enough to chill out in a house they plan to rob.

And looking at her now, you can believe she’d break in to scrounge for food. What looks like it should be a tight black tank top is hanging loose in some places on her slender form. Way too skinny. Did that loser Guzma even feed his team?

She clears her throat loudly and you realize that you’re openly staring at her. Your cheeks heat up as you look away and bow your head in apology. You wonder why you bothered—it’s not like you owe her anything even resembling an apology. But then again, you don’t really want another fight.

“How did you even find out where I live?” you ask, slowly relaxing your posture to defuse some of the tension. It seems to work, because the Grunt’s shoulders drop and a crooked grin curls her pink-painted lips.

She just winks in response, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. You follow her movements suspiciously as she squats down, picks a chip up off of the floor and….did she really just eat that? Gross.

You sigh and hold up the bag of groceries hanging from your arm.

“If I make you dinner, will you go away?”

*********

This was becoming a ritual. You’d come home to find your lock picked and that Grunt either in the process of raiding your fridge or sacked out on your couch with empty snack bags scattered around her like some crappy modern art display. At first it had been irritating, but now it was almost like having a stray Meowth relying on you. 

Plus, the only other human company you got these days was at work, and honestly you were pretty lonely. Sometimes you wonder if she noticed and was taking advantage of you. She’s smarter than she looks, if her ability to keep getting around your increasingly complex locks shows anything.

As you contemplate just making her a key, she whistles to get your attention.

“Hey, you,” she yawns, sitting up on the couch and scratching her stomach lazily. “What’s for dinner?”

You roll your eyes flop down next to her, snatching up the box of cookies she’d thrown on the coffee table. You don’t feel like cooking right now, so she can suck it up.

“If being part of Team Skull means you can’t even feed yourself, why are you still with them?” you ask. You’ve tried to poke her about this topic before, but every time she managed to avoid the conversation with a well-placed yawn or a declaration that she’s needed elsewhere. 

This time, she looks strangely pensive and tilts her head back into the cushion behind her. This is an unexpected reaction, so you hope you’ll get your unexpected answer.

“Out here, nobody really gives a crap about you,” she mumbles, bringing a hand up to pick at her chipping black nail polish. She’s trying to act like this is an easy conversation. You’re not fooled. “Don’t follow their perfect little narrative, and you’re trash. It’s whack.”

She sets her hand down and smiles suddenly. The dreaminess of it takes you aback.

“The boss man, though, he takes everyone in. Don’t matter where you came from or who you are. We have a real purpose in Team Skull, you feel me?”

She lapses into gushing about her “awesome”, “big and bad” boss, so you tune her out. Instead you focus on the way her eyes are lighting up, and notice that she must have lost her pink contacts. Her real eyes are honey brown, and surprisingly warm.

Was that warmth just for Guzma?

You swallow thickly, and for some reason it feels like trying to get down bitter medicine.

*********

You smile as you open your door to find the lock still intact. Honestly, you’d half expected her to keep breaking them even after you gave her a key. Maybe her polite entrance had something to do with the fact that you’d left Cinder at home today. 

As you approach the living room, you’re surprised to hear rhythmic mumbling instead of the usual snack crunching. When you poke your head in, you realize that she’s singing. No, rapping. Rapping very enthusiastically about an Incineroar to your Incineroar. She seems to be struggling to rhyme something with “lariat”.

Cinder growls in confusion and you slap your hand over your mouth to contain your laughter. You really didn’t feel like getting punched tonight. 

*********

“Yo, so I’ve been workin’ on my tattoo art and I thought maybe—“

“Absolutely not.”

*********

She’s following you as you do your shopping today, for some reason. You don’t really mind—her constant glaring has the crowd giving the two of you a wide berth. That makes navigating the market easier.

From what you can glean, she’s royally pissed because she was beaten by some “smug little punk” trainer this morning. Even now, she’s grumbling about it while you stock up on vegetables. It’s only when you pass over a stand with Revives and Potions that she takes an interest in you again. 

“Why don’t you ever buy battle stuff?” she asks. “Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen you battle anyone. ‘cept me.”

You shrug. “I dunno, I just don’t. I’ve never been all that into battling.”

She stares at you like you’re some strange, rare creature. “What’s the point of even havin’ Pokémon if you’re not tryin’ to get stronger and crush fools in battle?”

“I guess I just like being around them,” you reply, grabbing up a plastic tin of fresh-made poffins.

“You never did the trials as a kid?”

“Well, yeah I did. Everyone did.” 

“But you didn’t beat ‘em?”

“Nope,” you admit. “But I got Cinder out of it, so I guess all the frustration was worth it.”

“Glad at least you think there was a point,” she grumbles, sulking. “I wish I’d never done it. Work so hard and get a buncha wins and for what? I get my ass handed to me the moment I hit Akala.”

This is the most she’s ever talked about her past, and you’re incredibly curious. You’ve always heard that Team Skull was a bunch of failed trial-goers like you, but you still didn’t understand the draw of joining.

“Used to go runnin’ home to mom every time I thought I did good,” she continues, her voice picking up a bitter edge as she flicks over a little Noctowl figure on a nearby table. “But after I failed, I didn’t see the point of tryin’ at that stupid shit anymore. Not like mom was ever sober enough to care anyways.”

You feel like a lead weight just dropped into your gut.

“I’m sorry,” you reply lamely. You don’t know what else to say.

She clams up after that, clearly embarrassed at revealing so much, and punches you in the shoulder like it’s your fault. You flinch inwardly—showing weakness would probably only make her do it again. 

You buy something for her Salandit to cheer her up. It’s a little black bandana, complete with a skull in tiny rhinestones. She grins when you give it to her and punches your shoulder again, but lighter this time. You figure it’s the closest she’ll ever get to saying thanks.

*********

You drag yourself home from a difficult day at the restaurant to find your house empty and quiet. You’re so caught up in the resulting disappointment that you almost step on the piece of paper that was slipped under your door. 

You squat down to pick it up and look it over curiously. It’s a drawing of your Incineroar in the middle of a blazing fire attack. And it’s….good. Really good. There’s writing on the back; hastily scrawled.

‘I decided I don’t like owing you but this is all I got to give. So here. And thanks I guess.’

*********

“You deaf or somethin’? I told you to beat it before we beat you!”

You bite your lip and tighten your grip around your basket of malasada. It throws you off that the Grunt yelling at you from over the graffitied barricade looks just like her, with that bandana over her face. Same pink hair, same rude attitude. But it’s not her. There are no warm brown eyes.

As another Grunt—a big dude with impressive arms—approaches, you start wondering what drug someone had slipped you that made you think coming to Po Town was a good idea. Why didn’t you listen to that old police officer when he’d tried to warn you away? It’s even more of a rundown shithole than you’d imagined; damp and grey as death and air thick with the smell of spray paint and bad decisions. 

“I….I’m looking for someone,” you stammer, reaching for Cinder’s ball. You really don’t want to start anything and have a whole wave of these Grunts coming at you. “I…don’t know her name, but—“ 

“Like my girl said, you got no business here,” the Grunt boy interrupts aggressively. “Tried to warn ya. Now we’re gonna smash ya.”

The Grunts pull Poké Balls out from their pockets, and you scramble for the button on yours. Shit shit shit, you weren’t prepared for a two on one battle. And what if Guzma showed up? You’re screwed, you—

“HEY!”

Every muscle in your body relaxes as that familiar voice cuts through the chaos. Sure enough, your Grunt is stomping over with a vengeance. You’d recognize that particular swagger anywhere.

“Yo, back off,” she tells her teammates, smacking the blue-haired Grunt’s hand when he makes to throw his ball. “I got this one.”

She doesn’t leave time for the other Grunts to argue. She vaults effortlessly over the barrier and grabs you by the arm, pulling you along roughly. You stumble behind her, too rattled to protest as she shoves you behind a rickety house.

“What do you think you’re doin’ here?” she hisses, pinning you to the wall with deceptively strong hands and furious eyes. “You can’t just come waltzin’ into Team Skull turf. Are you some kind of idiot?”

Hell, you probably are.

“I came to bring you this,” you say, thrusting the basket of treats toward her. “I-I haven’t seen you in like two weeks and I was getting worried. But I don’t know your name, so I couldn’t…“

She looks at your sincere face and then down at the basket. Suddenly, her whole demeanor softens. 

“It’s Cara,” she grumbles out, like it’s some cursed thing. She snatches the basket from you with one hand and physically turns you around with the other. “Now get outta here. Next time, wait ‘til I come to you, got it?”

You’re so stunned that you barely register her shoving you out the secret way you’d come in. Cara. Her name is Cara.

*********

“Your hair is blonde,” you say, beaming at this new information.

She whips her head around to gape at you. She doesn’t realize that her roots are showing. You caught a glimpse of them when she took off her beanie to run her fingers through her hair as the two of you sat near the water in Malie Garden. That, coupled with the fact that you were pretty sure she hadn’t been stealing Pokemon with her teammates for at least a week, has your mood skyrocketing.

“A pretty blonde named Cara,” you hum, settling in smugly. “I learn something new about you every day.”

You don’t even complain when she kicks you into the water.

*********

“Why don’t you leave Team Skull? You really can do better.”

She rolls her eyes at you and shoves the cup of Komala coffee into your hands. She’d insisted on buying this time. You’d had to bite your lip and stay quiet as she dug around in her shorts pockets to scrounge up just enough change—which you were sure she’d won from some poor trainer—to buy one cup. She’d practically glared a hole into you the entire time, daring you to offer to pay instead. 

“Ugh, this again. Can’t we just chill together without you tryin’ to make it all real and stuff?” she asks, stomping out of the Pokémon Center. You follow along as quickly as you can without spilling your coffee.

“Come on! I don’t know why you sit around in that hellhole with that Guzma guy bossing you around.” You catch up to her, but only because she slowed down to let you. “Haven’t you ever thought about doing something else?”

She scoffs and kicks at a pebble near her foot, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Yeah, easy for you to say, hotshot,” she grumbles. “Not all us losers can be good looking and talented like you. You got your fancy cooking.” 

She stops at a short iron fence overlooking the ocean and leans against it, sighing. “What’ve I got? Nothin’. Nobody’d give me a job with my rep anyways.”

You lean on the fence next to her and try not to show how flustered you are by her compliments. That wouldn’t help right now. You stare at the water in front of you and hope to find some inspiration on what to say in the translucent waves, painted deep blue and gold by the setting sun.

“You’re a really good artist,” you attempt softly. You think back to the picture of Cinder she’d given you. You’d had it framed and hung on the wall in your living room. She’d purposefully ignored it.

She snorts and you shove her with your elbow.

“I mean it,” you insist. She elbows you back hard enough to make you groan and rub your ribs. Starting even the tiniest of fights with a Team Skull Grunt never worked out well. “That picture you made for me was great. You could for sure make a living doing that. And people love those rebellious artist types, so your ‘rep’ won’t matter.”

She turns her face away from you, her brows knitting together and her hands clenching around the fence rods. “Yeah?” she asks, her voice gentler than you’ve ever heard it.

It hurts you that she has so little confidence in herself. If there was anything you've learned over the time you've known her, it's that nearly all of that prickly bravado of hers is an act. You've been on the receiving end of her more unpleasant traits, but you've also seen the person beneath it. The person who somehow knows when you need her to stay just an hour longer than normal at your house; who you've caught brushing Cinder, careful and gentle; who has your back even if it means defying her own team; who can take pencil to paper and create something as precise and beautiful as the mind lurking under dyed hair and a stained skull cap.

And here she is questioning herself and her obvious talent.

“Yes, yeah! Your art is amazing," you insist. You catch her gaze and hold it, hoping your determined and genuine expression is more convincing than your clumsy words. She's looking at you, confused and uncharacteristically unguarded, and her hair is glowing under the dying sunlight and her eyes are sparkling and nearly golden and shit when did your hand get on top of her hand? “You’re amazing.”

She stares at you, wide-eyed and silent. Then she bursts into laughter. You flush bright red and look back to the ocean, feeling ridiculous. Of course that was her reaction.

“You’re such a fuckin’ sap,” she teases, bumping her shoulder gently against yours. At least she was being somewhat nice while mocking you this time.

You stand there with her until your coffee is cold. She never moves her hand from under yours.

*********

She tastes like shitty vodka and Pecha berry candy the first time she kisses you. You’re so surprised that you accidentally flinch and your teeth clack together. That doesn’t deter her. She grabs you by the back of your shirt and pulls you closer. Her lipstick is rubbing off on you and she obviously doesn’t know what she’s doing with her tongue and there’s too much spit—and it’s perfect. 

You cling to her, your knees weak with the overwhelming sense that you’ve never felt quite this alive. 

*********

There’s smoke everywhere when you get home. 

You gasp and sprint inside, only to find her in the middle of an intense shouting match with the fire alarm in the kitchen. She’s spitting out curses you’ve never even heard before while trying to hit it with a spatula. What you suppose was meant to be dinner is burned completely black in a pan, which is for some reason on the floor. Cinder and Salandit laze on the couch and observe the cuisine calamity, not even attempting to help. A couple bowls of what looks like equally burned Pokémon food are on the ground next to them, untouched.

“Aw, honey,” you chirp, trying your best not to burst in to laughter. “You cooked!”

You duck down just in time to avoid the spatula that flies by your head.

“Screw you!” she shrieks, stomping her feet like a petulant child. She crosses her arms over her chest defensively as you move closer and looks pointedly away from your face. “I ain’t never cooked shit before in my life and you’re just gonna make fun of me for trying? You’re such an assho—“

You cut her off by grabbing her arm and yanking her forward to press your lips against hers. She makes sure to smack your shoulder before melting into the kiss, fisting her fingers into the back of your shirt like always and pulling you impossibly close.

And as you stand there with her, in the middle of a half burnt-down kitchen with your Incineroar’s judgmental gaze boring into your back, you think that you could definitely get used to this.


End file.
